Dog Moves in a Mysterious Way

By Rob Badcock

Unlock the cage on this quirky collection of darkly comedic short stories and its curious cast of characters will take you to a place where reality blurs with fantasy and fear:

• A man stands crying in a room full of bodies trapped in their final, tortured death throes.
• On his very first scout camp, a tenderfoot is pitched into an alien world where a monster dog roams.
• The hushed sanctitude of a bird hide is broken by a suspicious stranger who delivers a chilling ultimatum.
• A defiant young factory worker of another world enters a speakeasy to perform the most dangerous act of her life.

A must-read for fans of dark comedy and all things bizarre, these stories will leave you wanting more and questioning the very fabric of our existence.

Whether you're howling with laughter or trembling in horror, one thing is sure – you will never, ever, look at a dog in the same way again…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fenrir Fonts
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738416202

Book preview

eBook_Cover.jpg

Copyright © 2023 by Rob Badcock

Published by Fenrir Fonts

Cover design by Spiffing Covers Ltd

All rights reserved

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7384162-1-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7384162-0-2

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Act 1: Ash Thursday

Act 2: 1957...

Act 3: The Hide

Act 4: See Emily Play

Ash Thursday

he man in seat 17A blinked his eyes open. He was most surprised to find himself on an aeroplane. He was even more surprised to see a chicken sitting beside him. A quick glance across the aisle told him that he hadn’t woken up on a chicken flight. To his relief, all the other occupants were humans, like him. He appeared to be the only traveller with a chicken as a companion. On the seat next to the chicken lay a book, open at page 57.

A fierce-looking woman in seat 17D was clearly unhappy with the situation and reached up to press the call button.

‘Yes, madam?’ said the young stewardess with a warm, friendly smile. It was her first flight.

‘That man has a chicken sitting next to him!’

Young Tiffany stared at the bird, stared at that man, then stared back at the bird, mouth agape. The chicken, unwilling to be drawn into a staring contest, concentrated on the emergency procedures notice stuffed into the seat pocket in front of it. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me…

Still wearing a fixed smile, the stewardess backed down the aisle all the way to the galley, where she reported the incident to her superior, a battle-scarred trolley warrior named Brenda.

‘A chicken? You’re pulling my leg, girl.’

‘No, it definitely was a chicken.’

‘A chicken? How the fuck did that get on board?’

‘I don’t know. I…’

Without waiting for an answer, Brenda pushed her way past the girl and barrelled down the aisle. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t totally unprepared to find an item of live poultry sitting on her plane, but when she did, she exploded. A fucking chicken! On her watch!

The man followed the chicken’s lead by staring out of the window. The bird had nothing to do with him. Besides, a chicken sitting beside him was the least of his problems. There followed much flapping of wing and much swearing of stewardess before the chicken finally went peacefully, but not before leaving a runny, yellow splat of a calling card, just to make sure no one took its seat.

The plane banked sharply to present breathtaking views of a snow-capped mountain range. White ridges intersected by black chasms stretched as far as the eye could see. Where the hell was he? The hum of the window against his cheek made him feel drowsy. He felt as if he had been travelling forever. Within a matter of seconds, the man in seat 17A was asleep.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ It took a third shake of the shoulder to pull him from the deep. He sat bolt upright with a jerk and stared wide-eyed at the young Tiffany. ‘We’ve landed, sir. Time to disembark.’

He struggled to a half stand, slid out of his seat and followed her to the exit, where she stood to attention.

‘Goodbye, sir, and thank you for flying Monarch Airlines.’

He took a deep breath and headed out into the bright sunlight. The heat hit him like a hammer. Halfway down the steps, he was halted by a cry.

‘Sir, you forgot your book!’ The wannabe fly me skipped down the steps to hand him the paperback. The book wasn’t his. The chicken wasn’t his. But here was not the time or place to argue, so he took it.

He felt his lips move. He heard himself say, in a voice he hardly recognised, ‘Where are we?’

‘Napoli, sir. Naples. See Naples and die!’ she laughed.

***

The ice clinked against the sides of the chunky, cut-glass tumbler as he raised the whisky to his lips. The warmth of the malt on his palate was real, the only thing akin to any kind of reality since he’d woken on the plane. What he had in his mouth was distilled, peaty and expensive. That much he knew.

Behind him on the bed lay a passport open at a name and face he didn’t know. Colin Barker, it read. It wasn’t him. Problem was, right now, he couldn’t come up with a better suggestion. He closed his eyes and let the liquor slip down his throat.

On the plus side, he hadn’t seen Naples and died. In fact, all that he’d seen of the place was through a grimy coach window, as the driver edged his way through a seething sea of traffic married with a constant cacophony of car horns. There’d been men standing in groups on street corners and barefoot boys kicking a ball about in a dark alleyway. It looked rough.

They finally broke clear of the city to follow a main highway passing through low-rise settlements, all painted white. To the right, there was a wide bay, to the left, a volcano.

A volcano… Why didn’t that surprise him? At least, there hadn’t been a chicken sitting next to him.

The travel rep, who had appeared from nowhere to grab him at the airport, now stood up at the front of the coach.

‘In half an hour, we shall be arriving in Sorrento. The temperature is a beautiful thirty degrees, and you will have this for the whole of your week’s stay, with no forecast of rain.’ A little cheer went up. ‘Our first stop will be at the Imperial Hotel Tramontano,’ she said, fixing a pointed stare in his direction. That must be him, then.

Front desk had welcomed him warmly. ‘You are in room 48, sir. We think you will like it. Best view in the hotel, sir. Your room is ready and the porter has taken your case up.’

Case? What case?

‘Your stay is fully paid for, sir. Just charge any extras to your room.’

Paid for?

‘We have booked a table for you in the restaurant at seven, sir. We hope you enjoy your stay.’

So the extras began with a brace of whiskies in the bar, followed by a carry-out, for good measure. And they had certainly been right about the room: high ceiling, polished parquet floor, floral wallpaper, marble-topped desk and large French windows opening out onto a balcony with one of the most breathtaking views he’d ever seen. The Bay of Naples, shimmering in the haze of the hot sun, was being criss-crossed by small passenger boats, presumably ferrying trippers out to the small islands he could make out to his left. The sea was a deep blue, as deep a blue as he’d ever seen. Apart from… apart from…

He glanced over at the king-size bed, with its plump white duvet and large fluffy pillows. It was calling his name, whatever that was. With a degree of difficulty, he levered himself out of the soft leather armchair and shuffled over to the bed, a tad unsteady on his feet. The passport he placed with exaggerated care on the bedside table and picked up the book the stewardess had thrust into his hand.

It was a dog-eared paperback which had clearly passed through a number of hands. Dusty, too, a thin, red film suggesting it might have once belonged to a gold prospector or fossil hunter. He’d clearly had too much to drink. He smiled, as he looked round for the waste bin, before recalling it was in the bathroom under the sink. For a moment, he considered making the trek across the parquet expanse, then thought better of it and flopped onto the bed, book still in hand.

He lay on his back and closed his eyes. So tired, so tired. Yet the weird, unexplainable happenings of the day would not let him go. Who had bought him a ticket for a trip to Italy, all expenses paid? More importantly, how come he couldn’t remember anything before the moment he woke up on the plane? Was his name really Colin Barker? What the fuck was happening to him? With every unanswered question, he could feel himself becoming more agitated, so he picked up the book. It fell open in his hands on page 57…

I look forward to the training sessions; beats the monotony of cage and compound. So here I am, waiting patiently, standing like a good boy, waiting for the command. Looks like we’re ready to go…

Yakka, yakka, yakka! DZIT!

Okay, okay, I get the message. You really don’t have to shout. Now how about the praise and reward? I snatch at the dried biscuit and gulp it down. Interesting, Aggie seems to be on good form today. That was a 30-second down. Usually bottom of the class and naughty with it. Pissed in the middle of the big yellow bendy tunnel last week and wouldn’t come out. Boy, did she pay for that.

Mmm… hold on a minute. My nose tells me her handler is giving her a different treat. I edge closer. I’m getting bacon, I’m getting tuna and, oh my god, could it be… liver? No wonder she’s jumping through hoops!

Yakka, yakka, yakka. WRALKIES!

So we are all led up and down on our leads. Right turn. Left turn. About turn. Yakka, yakka, yakka. SHTAND! We all stand, waiting for the pat and the treat. We walk on. A late arrival appears, offering a smile of apology in the hope it will wash with Handler. It never ceases to amaze me how so-called intelligent beings will insist on dragging us behind them when we are trying to squat for a crap, as is the case here. It’s Harry!

Harry’s the most popular